11:11

Seven Flowers

by Steven Hughes Purkey

& Deirdree Prudence

The mimeograph machine whirred as he fed paper into it…torn
paper…crumpled paper…he had to get this done. He had to get this shit printed,
as many copies as he could, & distributed to the masses. He had to get
this done.

He’d already been working for several days straight, day &
night, with little to no sleep…he’d lost track, his mind a blur…he just knew
that this printing was urgent.

Darryl Allan Levy pulled the final page from his hand-held
copier & begin haphazardly stapling the pages together…printing, collating,
folding, staples flying, he loved it. He had to get this done. It was his 1stbook on his own Seven Flowers
Press—poetry, collages…art that transcended definition…just as d.a. did in his
personal life…He had to get this done.

It was 1967…he’d been on this Earth just 25 years, but felt his
time was limited…he thought of suicide most days…when he wasn’t blowing his
brains out with drugs & sex & art & poetry…He friends gave him
stacks of books. He read every one of them. They kept bringing them, books of
all sorts, it kept him here. On this planet. They knew when the books were no
more, d.a. would be gone…

But right now he just wanted to print, to publish his & his
friends’ works & enlighten the city of Cleveland, his hometown…the love of
his life…

A few years back, in Mexico, the smell of adobe, the stink of
loss in the dry air, the realization
occurred to him that he was, in fact, a poet…not any ordinary mad man, but a
real poet…an artist…& he felt it his duty to bring it to the people…on the
streets…for free. He had to get this done.

He stood in the freezing cold of a Cleveland winter, snow
falling hard against his body & face, as he enunciated the words of his
works…sharing his profane poetry with the masses, most of which ignored
him…hurried by on their way to here & there, pulling their coats closer,
tighter, as they scurried away from him, narrowing their eyes. He was dressed
in a tattered coat, pants too big & his dark hair & beard a mess. The
residents of Cleveland looked at him, thought him homeless, a beatnik they’d
heard about on the nightly news over their tv dinners. He was one of them…

d.a. passed out his passion to the strangers as they walked by…a
few taking the time to stop & read a line or two…some dropping the
hand-printed pamphlets to the icy frigid sidewalk, trampling over them…&
trampling over him & his hopes & dreams…